


A Bit of A Domestic

by goingbadly



Series: En Masque [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Bickering, Domestic Violence, God knows, I never fucking tag my fics with meaningful things and I should, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Punishment, Violence, day in the life, tumblr prompt I suppose, whadddup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, a day in the life of Sebastian Moran and his Possessive Psychotic Boss.</p><p>It starts with trainers and ends with Sebastian chained to the tub, so the bathroom drain can catch the blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of A Domestic

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: Jim being emotionally manipulative towards Sebastian all day and Sebastian finally snapping and escalating things (any way). Basically mormor having a bit of a domestic. For [Suspiciously Spanish](http://suspiciouslyspanish.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr! Unbetaed. Sorry it took so long!

**9:23 PM.**

          Sebastian knows he’s really in trouble when Jim handcuffs him to the leg of the bathtub. It’s the end of what has been – in Sebastian’s opinion – a very long fucking day. Jim looks collected enough as the cuffs ratchet shut, except for the dark bruise blooming on his cheekbone, but he's got a rabid look in his eye. He slaps Seb to the side before he stands, leaving Sebastian’s face hot and stinging. Sebastian sucks his lip in over his teeth, a sharp sound in the silence. Jim’s done the cuffs a bit too tight again. Sebastian considers snapping at him for it. He’s got a suicidal urge to make things worse, just because they’re so bad already.

Jim’s trying for cold and unconcerned, but he keeps twitching with the tension of his muscles. The cuffs locking Sebastian to the bathtub are Jim’s favorite set; rigid, heavy Hiatt Speedcuffs that Seb nicked off a dead cop in London. They hold Sebastian’s wrist so close to the ground that he has to wrench his arm awkwardly to the side. It puts his bones in a taut and vulnerable position and he’s trying not to think how easily they would crack under Jim’s trainers; like eggshells.

Oh, yeah. Jim’s wearing trainers. That’s how it all started. The fucking _trainers._

**Sunday, 6:17 AM.**

          The coffee pot isn’t even on.

 _What the **fuck,** _ Sebastian thinks, staring at it. He feels a sort of dull hatred towards the machine for refusing to make coffee when he programmed it to. It sits disappointingly on the counter, cold and empty. Sebastian’s so tired his arms seem to drag towards the ground, making his shoulders ache with the strain of standing upright. He doesn’t want to be awake. He certainly doesn’t want to be out of fucking bed. In Sebastian’s experience there are three things that never take place this early in the morning: bank robberies, assassinations, and good moods.

But Jim says jump, and Sebastian asks, _onto who,_ and _how dead do you want them, scale of one to ten._ So here he is. And here the coffee machine is.

Sebastian yawns and rubs the back of hand over the side of his mouth, down to his jaw. His scruff is like sandpaper against his knuckles, and rubbing does nothing to get the cotton taste out of his mouth. God, mornings are an _awful_ business.

Sebastian drops a hand limply on the top of the coffee maker, fumbles it open, and peers inside. There’s ground and water in it already – brilliant – so Seb just thumbs the switch on before he drops in his chair at the table. _His_ chair being the one that wobbles. Jim is no longer _allowed_ the one that wobbles. Sebastian can still hear the sound of Jim rocking back and forth against the tile in his goddamn nightmares; _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump_ , on and on and on until Sebastian nearly broke his fucking teeth grinding them together.

When Sebastian groans and flops forward on the table, the wobbly chair tilts with him; drumming its short leg loudly against the tile, just once, _thump._ The coffee maker is starting to steam on the counter, black drops more precious than oil slowly filling the carafe.

Christ, Sebastian feels like he hasn’t slept for a week. He’d come in last night god-knows-when, with oil on his hands from the burner gun and his belly full of satisfaction. Only to find the note – _Need you up at 6 tomorrow. Don’t sleep in. –_ pinned via pocketknife to the statue in the front hall. Jim’s favorite way of leaving messages.

To Jim’s credit, there _is_ something really funny about David being repeatedly gored in the forehead.

So Sebastian had stabbed at the buttons of his coffee machine with a finger to set the automatic start and stumbled up to one of the guest bedrooms. He’d passed out face-first on top of the sheets. The fact that he managed to tell Siri to set an alarm should count as a minor miracle. The fact that Siri actually set the _right_ alarm is probably cause for an exorcism of some sort – it just can’t be holy.

The coffee machine beeps hopefully on the counter. Sebastian drags himself towards it. He pulls down a mug, only narrowly missing pulling down the whole cupboard, and pours himself a black cup to start. Cream and sugar can come later, when he’s got the patience for subtlety.

Seb’s about three inches into his second cup (with generous amounts of cream and sugar), when Moriarty comes down the stairs. The first thing Sebastian notices is the trainers, black soles leaving long streaks on the flawless honey-oak stairs. The second is how Jim’s dressed.

At first Sebastian thinks Moriarty’s wearing Jim-from-IT – not one of Seb’s favorite faces, but whatever. Moriarty’s always up for fun after a day in Jim-from-IT: twinky and teasing, bouncing around Seb with a fuck-me smile. Sebastian grunts in Jim’s direction and raises his coffee mug to his lips to sip it. Fuck knows why Jim feels the need to bust out Jim-from-IT today, but fuck knows why Jim feels the need to do _anything._

Sebastian even swallows half a mouthful of coffee before he realizes the v-neck’s a little too big, and the jeans are a little too loose. Moriarty’s been scrubbing his hands through his hair to mess it up, which Jim-from-IT doesn’t do – faggy little peacock. And that cardigan – that _fucking_ red cardigan –

Something cold clenches tight around Sebastian’s chest. “ _No,_ ” he says, flatly, setting his mug down on the counter. There’s icy fury building from the center of Sebastian’s chest outwards, making it hard to breathe.

“Problem, Tiger?” Moriarty drawls, heading for the kettle. It’s always weird hearing Jim speak while he’s wearing someone else’s face, but this is something fucking else again.

“You know that one’s _fucking_ off limits, Jim, _Christ_.”

“But I _liked_ the Storyteller…”

There’s a shattering sound. Sebastian’s coffee mug is quite suddenly in several pieces in the floor, chocolate-coloured liquid seeping under the short leg of his chair. Seb blinks at it, then his hand – bloody, smashed palm flat onto the counter where his mug used to be.

 _Must have pushed it over,_ Seb thinks. He didn't see it, but honestly he’s having a hard time seeing at all.

Jim looks up, and grins. “Something _wrong_ , dear?” he asks again, solicitous.

Sebastian snarls. Jim pours himself a steaming mug of tea, and peers over its rim at Sebastian – eyes wreathed in smoke. He blinks, slow, the picture-perfect image of polite attention. Neatly manicured nails poke out from under Richard Brook’s rusty, well-worn cardigan.

 _He’d be too cheap to buy a new one,_ Jim had explained, in one of the rare moments of lucidity he had back then, _Or would he buy one for court – no, Kitty might buy one for him, but he wouldn’t buy his own, he doesn’t have much money, our Richard –_

“I thought I burned that fucking jumper.”

“Yes, well, you also thought you buried me.” Jim’s tone is casually cruel. “It was a bit of a year for misunderstandings, wasn’t it?”

“It was three years.”

Jim just smiles, chill and merciless. “You’d better get going, Tiger. I texted you your job ten minutes ago, and it’s on the other side of London...”

So, yeah. It all starts with the fucking trainers.

 

**Sunday, 11:48 AM.**

** <**so what the fuck is wrong with you? **Sent: 11:48 – 12/07/2014 >**

 **<** Got to be careful texting on jobs. Wouldn’t want you getting sloppier than you already are... –JM **Sent: 11:50 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**you know as well as I do theres fuck all else to do once im in position. **Sent: 11:51 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**so were you TRYING to piss me off? **Sent: 11:56 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**you should fucking know better than putting that on **Sent: 12:06 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**dont go all silent you know it was bloody out of line **Sent: 12:20 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**answer me dammit **Sent: 12:27 – 12/07/2014 >**

 **<** Daddy’s busy, dear. Well talk about your dependence issues after you shoot those nasty Russians for me. –JM **Sent: 12:31 – 12/07/2014 >**

 **<** Also I told them there was a sniper camped out in one of the buildings around the hotel. Don’t interrupt me at work again, darling. XXX. –JM **Sent: 12:31 – 12/07/2014 >**

 ** <**burn in fucking hell. **Sent: 12:32 – 12/07/2014 >**

**Sunday. 1:19 PM.**

          Sebastian limps into the living room, leaving a smear of blood on the creamy white door jamb. Jim will _screech_ about that, but well, serve Jim fucking _right._ Christ, it’s been a bitch of a day. Seb’s got a makeshift tourniquet on his right thigh and crusted blood on his fingers. He even had to burn one of his favourite _fucking_ ghost cars, because he’s pretty sure that the Slovak who chased him down got the number and make.

“Jim!” Sebastian yells up the stairs, in the direction of Jim’s office. “Get _fucking_ down here!”

His voice echoes off the bannisters and fades into silence. There’s no creak of feet on floorboards above, no answering voice. Sebastian counts patiently to ten, sucks his lips in over his teeth with a loud sound, and _fumes._

_That fucking prick isn’t even going to –_

Sebastian casts around furiously for something to leave Jim. Preferably something that will communicate just how _fucking annoying_ he’s being right now. His eyes trace from the empty staircase to the pristine white chaise longue in the living room. Jim had it imported; cost a fucking fortune. Originally from the palace at Versailles, the chaise is upholstered in spotless cream and white silk embroidery. Priceless. Showy. Useless. As far as interior decorating goes, it’s very _Jim._

Sebastian looks down at his hands. The layers of blood on his fingers are drying in stages, leaving several distinct and different shades; from the bright fresh cherry of his torn-off fingernail, to the deep, wine-red flakes of venous flow. The dark blood is mostly old, from tying off the tourniquet, but the rest of it…

Sebastian rubs his thumb and his forefinger together, feeling the slick ooze of blood between them, and smiles.

**Sunday, 3:23 PM.**

          “My _couch,_ Moran, are you _suicidal?!”_ Jim’s voice is raw, probably only a step or two above a throaty scream.

Seb looks up from the Sig he’s got in pieces on the table – slide’s been a bit sticky, lately, and he thought he’d fix it while he waited for Jim to notice. Jim’s practically quivering. Obviously someone set him on angry vibrate.

Sebastian can’t help a smirk as he snaps the slide back into place. “Something happen to your couch, Boss?” he asks, insultingly bored.

Jim hisses like steam from a hot kettle. “You’re getting that cleaned or I _will_ make myself a new one from your _hide,_ do you understand me?!”

“Mmm… In a minute.” Yeah, no. Sebastian doesn’t think so. It serves Jim fucking _right_ for all the shit he’s pulled. “Sort of busy. Come back later.” Sebastian flaps a hand dismissively at Jim, then points the gun off between the metal wiring and checks its function. “Don’t really have time for trivial shit right now…”

Without missing a beat, Jim steps forward and slaps the gun out of Sebastian’s hands. Before it’s even hit the ground, Sebastian’s hand snaps up and grabs Jim’s wrist, tight enough to be painful. Jim’s skin kinks under his fingers, creasing like twisted fabric.

The Sig clatters off beneath one of the cupboards. “Don’t fucking _touch_ my guns,” Sebastian snaps at Jim, pulling hard on his wrist for punctuation.

Jim’s eyes slide silently down to his hand, then back up to Sebastian’s eyes. Slow. Deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but the air between them is suddenly so frozen Seb half expects his breath to show.

“Let go.” Jim says evenly.

“Once you agree to quit _fucking around,_ ” Sebastian spits back. “You put on Richard- _fucking_ -Brook – “

“I had my reasons, Sebastian, and if you question me again I will – ”

“You’ll what?! You wanted to piss me off, Jim, don’t fucking act like I’m too stupid thick to get when you’re bloody well messing with me.” Sebastian throws Jim’s wrist away from him viciously. “You’ve got no _fucking_ idea what I went through waiting for you, and you play that card like it’s just another clever fucking _tactic!?”_ Something unbearably hot is tearing its way out of Sebastian’s chest, something furious and uncontrollable. He has to stop yelling to take a deep breath.

Jim watches Sebastian with narrow, glittering eyes; a sight that would usually set Sebastian running for the nearest reliable cover. Now, either Seb’s too dumb or he’s too angry to _give_ a shit.

Jim rubs his fingers over the reddened skin of his wrist. Sebastian jabs a finger in his chest, creasing his posh silk tie. “You want to play around like a fucking CHILD, Jim, _fine._ But don’t be surprised if I’m just as childish back.”

There’s a slack silence, as the echoes of Sebastian’s shouting clear from the gun cage. Jim stands with his weight on one hip, leant slightly against the metal table, staring down at Sebastian. From his expression, he might be staring at chocolate cake. Or a wounded antelope. Jim looks _predatory._

Alarm bells nearly penetrate the angry fog of Sebastian’s thoughts, but fail at the last second to make him apologize.

“Is _that_ how it is,” Jim purrs, silken and menacing.

“Yeah,” Sebastian snaps, turning his back on Jim, “That’s how it is.”

**Sunday, 6:00 PM.**

          If you live long enough by a forest, you can tell a widow-maker just by the creak of the trees. Sebastian Moran has lived with Jim Moriarty long enough to know a fire when he smells one. Although it takes him a while, this time. Smoke and heat travel upwards, and the gun cage is in the cool, damp heart of the basement.

But he has to piss eventually, and when he comes up the stairs to the kitchen the smell of burning fabric and leather is dense on the air. The fire alarm dangles uselessly from its red wires; cut out and disabled. _Someone’s torching the house._ Sebastian’s combat readiness goes from 0 to 60 in the time it takes him to cough and cover his mouth with one hand.

The first thing he heads for is the gun strapped under the couch. The air is thick and cloudy with smoke already, billowing out from the top of the house in great, slow moving sheets. Whoever’s lit the house on fire has started at the top.

_At least there’s a fire extinguisher up there –_

Sebastian tries hard not to think about Jim. Unpredictable Jim. Insomniac Jim, passing out and being dead to the world at the worst possible times – _Jim caught in the fire_ – Sebastian grits his teeth.

The gun’s loaded. Sebastian turns the safety off on the first floor landing and chambers a round. Fires do just _happen,_ but if there’s one thing he’s learned from Jim it’s to be suspicious of coincidences.

Sebastian’s eyes are already watering. On the second floor, the smoke is choking; it smells claustrophobically of burning plastic and hide, clinging to Sebastian’s lungs when he tries to breathe. He tries his best not to cough again, not to alert hostiles to his position. The gun stays up and ready, although he keeps his finger off the trigger. After all, Jim might still be in the house.

Their bedroom door is open. Sebastian’s stomach drops as he realizes the smoke is coming from inside, breathing up from the doorway and around the jamb. Sebastian curses, imagining Jim with his limbs all sprawled out and lazy in sleep. Imagining Jim, shot while Sebastian was obliviously downstairs, his corpse torched…

_Doesn’t smell of burning hair yet, Moran. Focus._

Sebastian ducks into the corner by the door and peeks around the frame. He has to squint against the hot, noxious smoke, but he still manages to make out a dim, shadowy figure sitting by the bed; low enough to breath clear air. Waiting.

Sebastian wraps his finger around the trigger.

He coughs twice, like sandpaper dragged over his throat, before he can speak. “Whoever you are – get the fuck on your feet.”

“Why, dearest,” comes the old familiar drawl, “I thought you _liked_ me down here.”

Sebastian’s stomach goes from hollow to clenched in a heartbeat, and it’s only from long fucking training that he takes his finger off the trigger instead of pulling down. His mind goes absolutely blank in anger. It’s almost zen, how pissed he is. So fucking pure that for a second, there isn’t anything but the white rush of blood in his ears. The fire ceases to exist. The danger. All that matters is Jim – fucking _Jim_ , making Sebastian think that he was –

"Get the joke?" Jim drawls, _"B_ _lowjob height._ _"_

Sebastian shoves his gun into his pants and fights through the smoke to Jim. The fire is in their closet, and Jim is sitting close enough to it that the air is unbearably hot and viciously low on oxygen. He's giggling in little snorting gasps, like he’s struggling to hold back his laughter and failing. Sebastian snarls in mindless rage and grabs a fistful of fabric and cloth at the nape of Jim’s neck to drag him to the door.

Angry or not, the boss comes first, and that is a fucking fire.

As Sebastian hauls Jim to his feet, Jim gulps down his laughter and manages, “You might want to put it out soon – if the gunpowder you store back there goes off – “ he makes a valiant attempt at clicking his tongue in disapproval, but can’t quite manage before he lapses back into helpless giggles.

Sebastian’s face goes cold, blood draining from his body in pure, icy fury. “You fucking _pogue_ bastard –“ he shouts, shaking Jim by the collar.

Jim’s head snaps sickeningly on his neck, like a rag doll. “Now is that a go at my _race,_ or my _rank?_ ” he jeers, “Fire extinguisher by the bathroom, _love._ ”

 _The sick fucking –_ Sebastian throws Jim bodily to the floor. Jim goes tumbling off over the carpet, all bones and pale skin and dark fabric, faded by the thick smoke.

Sebastian’s head is rapidly going fuzzed from oxygen loss. The bathroom seems to swim dreamily into existence before him, emerging slow and picturesque from the smoke. Sebastian wraps his hands around the fire extinguisher nearly blind, figuring out the different parts by feel alone.

The fire has been set with an entire can of hard-to-extinguish chemical accelerant – because of course it has. And it’s set at the very back of the closet, using every thread of clothing Sebastian owns, because Jim is a fucking _shitstain_.

**Sunday. 8:00 PM.**

          Sebastian finishes field-dressing the last of his burns in the bathroom sink and goes to find Jim. He’s got enough foresight to leave all his weapons locked up – put a tire-iron or god forbid a handgun into the mix tonight, and one of them is going to end up dead. One of them might end up dead anyways; it’s that sort of night.

The house is dark, although the TV is on in the living room downstairs. Sebastian can hear the noise creeping faintly up the stairwell as he stomps downwards.

“Edmond Dantes is dead,” the Count of Monte Cristo says, crackling in the living-room speakers.

Sebastian suddenly wishes he’d brought the tire iron. When he enters the room Jim looks up, cast in the white-and-blue light of the television screen.

“Can I help you, pet?” Jim says, innocently.

Sebastian gestures at the TV. “That’s a little cheap, don’t you think?”

Jim’s eyebrows raise. “Why, Sebastian. I’m touched you noticed the similarity. Are you my Mercedes?” A wicked smile runs over Jim’s face. “I always liked the novel more.”

“Get to your feet,” Sebastian says calmly.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I don’t want to beat you without at least giving you a _chance_ to fight back.”

Jim tilts his head to the side in that way of his; like a snake being charmed, or a hound considering a chew toy. “Please,” he says calmly, “Be my guest.”

From the expression on his face Sebastian can tell he’s serious, which with Jim is significantly worse then joking. Whatever he’s playing this stupid little game for, he’s playing it for keeps. Sebastian’s chest is tight. His hands ball into fists. The stupid psychotic fuck actually _wants_ this – he’s fucking _asking_ Sebastian to start the fight that ends them both. He sighs, rests his chin in his hand and looks up at Sebastian with mock disappointment. “You know, keep acting so cowardly, and I might get bored enough to _shoot_ myself…”

To Sebastian’s credit, he doesn’t punch Jim in the face. He _knees_ Jim in the face. Jim’s head connects with Sebastian’s kneecap and snaps backwards, so fast he’s thrown against the back of the couch and his skull makes punishing contact with the wall. The crack of bone on bone and the thump of Jim’s head slamming against the wall are startlingly loud, even with the old movie playing in the background.

(“Even my soul is not the same,” Edmond Dantes says.

“I can believe that,” Mercedes replies.)

Jim peels himself slowly off from the couch and leers at Sebastian; wide and unfriendly.

“My turn,” he grins, and pulls the Taser out from between the cushions of the couch. Sebastian has just enough time to think, _**FUCK,**_ before the world explodes into electric fireworks.

It’s that sort of night.

**Sunday, 9:23 PM.**

          Jim handcuffs Sebastian to the leg of the bathtub. “Easier to mop up the _mess_ in here, _isn’t it._ **_Tiger._** ”

Jim looks furious, a dark bruise already setting in over his cheekbone. Sebastian sneers at him, spitting on the tiles at Jim’s feet.

Jim slaps Sebastian’s head hard to the side, so Sebastian’s skull raps against the porcelain tub. Seb groans, feeling it catch in his throat. The cuffs are too tight, _fuck_ Jim, and the floor is making his ass go numb already.

Jim might have been calm when he pulled the Taser but now he’s nearly _vibrating_ with anger.

Sebastian tries to get up, but his wrist is pinned nearly flat to the ground. It braces him perfectly to get his wrist broken. Or his arm.

 _Fuck_ Jim. “What the fuck was this _about?!”_ Sebastian demands furiously. “You’re fucking with me. You’ve _been_ fucking with me. And now – what – I get a little revenge, and it’s fucking _vivisection_ time?”

Jim grabs Sebastian’s chin squarely between his thumb and index finger, digging his nails in until Sebastian hisses in pain. His eyes have a familiar light in them, that makes Sebastian’s skin itch; manic and eager to go. The expression is not one of Jim’s masks as much as it’s one of the faces he wears honestly; _Psycho-and-Proud_.

“You don’t know what you _did?_ ” Jim jerks Sebastian's head to the side, snapping the air in his spine with a machine-gun _pop_. “Maybe you should try noticing when you PISS ME OFF!”

His scream is so close to Sebastian’s face that Sebastian flinches instinctively back from Jim’s predator’s teeth. He knows Jim sees it, of course. Jim can’t help but notice weaknesses.

Still, he tries not to let Jim win that easily. “I hadn’t even had fucking _coffee_ when you –“

“Oh, sorry, that’s _right,_ ” Jim interrupts, in an absolutely deceptive purr, “You were _late_ coming back. Silly of me, forgetting.”

Jim’s never been silly a day in his life. Sebastian racks his brain for what had happened on mission and comes up with very little. He’d taken the shot, torched the gun, headed to the car… even stopped at a diner on the way home, because the last time he tried to cook at four in the morning Seb woke Jim up. And Jim put a kitchen knife through Seb’s hand.

At the diner there’d been a waitress. Seb’d been friendly because she had a tired look and a fresh black eye, Christ if Seb didn’t know what that was like. When she slid coffee across the table, black and bitter, he’d touched her hand and said, _You could do better_.

Then it clicks. And immediately after understanding, comes utter bewilderment. _Really? That’s what this is fucking about?_

“You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Try me.”

“The waitress.”

“What part of, _only I touch you_ did you fail to understand, Moran?” Jim throws Sebastian’s chin angrily to the side, gets up, and stalks over to the medicine cabinet. There’s a set of scalpels in there, after all.

Sebastian’s first reaction is snarling frustration. He even gets most of the way through saying _I just fucking gave the girl one customer who wasn’t a prick,_ before something more important lights up in his brain.

“You were jealous.”

Jim stops with his hand on the cupboard door. “Was I?” His shoulders are squared-off and cold.

“You were watching me, Jim, come on. The girl?”

Jim turns around slow. His expression is blank, but his eyelashes have flicked a little bit lower; shading his eyes. His hands hang loose by his hips.

Anyone else might have trouble reading Moriarty at this point, but Sebastian – Sebastian knows the little freak. As much as sometimes he wishes he didn’t.

“Jim,” he says, finally, when it’s clear Jim isn’t going to speak, “This is fucking stupid. You don’t need to hurt me just to prove how miserable I am without you.”

“Of course I don’t.”

Jim’s not going to admit it, and they’ll be fighting like this all fucking week. Sebastian takes a deep breath to beg forgiveness.“ _Jim_ – “

Sebastian is fast. Jim’s always been faster. He almost seems to blur as he takes the bathroom tiles in two quick strides, sliding to his knees straddling Sebastian. He grabs Sebastian’s skull in his hands. When he forces Sebastian’s head back, his grip is hard enough to be painful, fingernails digging in to Seb's temples.

“You are _mine,_ ” he hisses, “ _Mine._ There’s no one in the world but us, Sebastian, do you _understand_ this time?!”

Jim looks as if Sebastian saying ‘no’ is grounds for a murder-suicide. But Sebastian doesn’t even think about it – not with Jim like this; in Sebastian’s lap, furious and desperate and vulnerable.

 _I love you,_ Seb wants to say, _I belong to you, who the fuck else can compare._ But who says crap like that? Who believes in love?

“Just try and get rid of me, you childish prick,” he growls up into Jim’s face, “You haven’t managed it yet, not even when you fucking _died._ ”

Jim’s lips crush down over Sebastian’s. His grip doesn’t loosen at all; forcing Sebastian’s head back against the unforgiving porcelain of the tub. Sebastian loses his breath in a hiss when Jim’s teeth sink into his lip. Jim’s tongue thrusts into Sebastian’s mouth, pressing himself into Sebastian with impatient violence; as if tolerating another moment of separation is beyond bearing. Sebastian’s pretty sure he’s lost some hairs to Jim’s fingers. But fuck it. Seb grabs Jim’s shirt with his free hand and drags Jim closer; tearing back into Jim as fast as Jim demolishes him.

“Mine,” Jim snarls around his teeth, meaning _I love you._

“ _Fuck_ you,” Sebastian gasps, meaning it back.


End file.
